


Untitled (shameless pwp)

by omegal14 (unheard_secret)



Series: Shameless [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Don't read, M/M, Omega Verse, Omega!Sherlock, Why Did I Write This?, really don't read, unless shameless alpha/omega porn is your thing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:46:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unheard_secret/pseuds/omegal14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin. Written for the kinkmeme. The original thread can be found here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/16422.html?thread=97807398#t97807398</p><p>Alpha!John, Omega!Sherlock, and yes, it is really nothing more than porn. It has no redeeming qualities. (Other than the porn).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled (shameless pwp)

The pillow felt rough beneath Sherlock's cheek when he woke, the weak winter sun felt like liquid honey on his skin, and the room was rendolent with hormones - the scent filling the room with desire, desperation and depravity. He tried to push himself into a sitting position, but the movement left him rolling dizzily to the side, his entire body calling out for him to lie back down and wait. 

He tucked his head back into his pillow, rubbing his cheek lazily across the cloth - on any other day the fabric would be soft and smooth, but with his senses heightened, it seemed to rasp against his chin. The sensation had him emitting a soft, involuntary whimper. 

He paused at the sound, a momentary hesitation, before instinct took over and he pressed his forehead more firmly into the soft pillow. 

In the far corner of the room there was a soft click as the door opened and Sherlock, keeping his head down, stretched out his left arm, asking, inviting, John to bed. 

John paused at the door, and Sherlock could feel his gaze resting heavily on his back. He'd gone to bed in pyjamas the night before - it was cold and Sherlock liked to sleep warm - and now the pyjama top was twisted about his torso, and the pants were tangled about his hips with the blankets. All of them pulling deliciously with every inadvertant thrust down. 

John walked forward, and his pace was steady and infuriating. Sherlock moaned softly into the pillow and pressed his weeping cock into the mattress. 

"Oh love," said John, his palm pressing, fever hot, into Sherlock's, their only point of contact. "You're in a bad way, aren't you?"

Sherlock barely heard the words, but John's calming tone made him pause. He pushed his arse into the air - his head still pressed in the pillow - and made himself as inviting as he could. "Please," he whimpered, "please." His John was there, a calm presence beside him, and everything in Sherlock called out to draw him closer, pull him in, until he was pressed inside, filling him. 

John didn't respond immediately. Instead his hand brushed a soft path up Sherlock's arm, pushing the pyjama sleeve ahead, his touch warm, and perfect, and not what Sherlock wanted, not what he needed. Sherlock muttered 'please, please', distracted, and unaware that he was speaking at all, only to stop at John's whispered 'hush'. 

Sherlock's sleeve caught on his elbow, but John continued, his palm brushing upward, across cloth, and then against skin again. Sherlock shivered as John's hand reached his neck, hot and steady, pressing down. His grip was strong, and there was enough weight behind it that Sherlock couldn't have moved, had he wanted to, but Sherlock didn't want to. He wanted nothing more than to arch into the touch, eyes closing as desire flooded him in waves, arse pressing upward as slickness coated his thighs. 

"Please," he sighed again, his voice thick with want. 

"Get these off then," said John, the hand not at Sherlock's neck, pushing that the pyjamas and blankets still tangled about Sherlock's legs. 

Sherlock pushed, and John pulled, and their hands tangled together, but eventually the blankets were gone, off the bed entirely and falling on the floor, Sherlock's pants lost somewhere in their folds. 

John was on the bed now, kneeling over Sherlock, his body so close that Sherlock was almost drowning in the scent falling off him. It was musky and thick and tantalizing and enough to make Sherlock's mouth fill with saliva. 

One of John's hands pressed at Sherlock's shoulder, while the other guided him to turn over onto his back. Sherlock shifted, wanting nothing more than to do as John asked. John pressed at him, rearranging his limbs, placing Sherlock where he wanted him, and Sherlock opened his eyes for the first time since John entered the room, his gaze resting on John. He didn't so much as glance sideways as John divested him of his pyjama top, undoing the buttons with what felt like agonising slowness. 

"So good for me, aren't you, my love?" said John once the top was gone, hands running down Sherlock's ribs, his fingers splayed.

"Yes," groaned Sherlock, one foot kicking at the matress as his hips tried to thrust into the air. "For you, only you."

John smiled softly, a satisfied smile, possessive and demanding. His gaze, where it caught Sherlock's own, seemed to pull Sherlock in, saying 'come to me, you'll be safe here.'

Without any concious though Sherlock found his legs spreading, his arse pressing more deeply into the matress, slicking the sheets beneath him, and his cock dripping pre-cum. He almost groaned again, but the sound was stopped in his throat by John kissing him, his tongue licking deep. Sliding into him possessively. Sherlock didn't move his hands, though some small part of him wanted to tangle them into John's hair, but he pressed up chasing the flavour of John's mouth as he pulled away - too soon. 

Sherlock looked up at John, pleadingly, his lips slick with saliva and his expression wrecked. John pressed a thumb to his mouth, slipping it in over his teeth briefly, before pulling back and tugging on Sherlock's lower lip. "You were made for this, weren't you?" he said, almost to himself. 

Sherlock blinked slowly, trying to understand the question, wanting to agree. John's expression grew considering, and his slick thumb returned, accompanied by two fingers. Sherlock sucked on them, hollowing his cheeks, his tongue flicking about the pad of the thumb, caressing the knuckles on the fingers. 

"Yes, love," said John, "like that, just like that," and his other hand was fumbling with the zip to his jeans - and why was John still dressed? - pressing his jeans to the floor, along with his boxers, freeing him, and making Sherlock's body ignite with want as his scent grew stronger. Came closer. 

"Take it, love," said John, softly, his free hand carressing Sherlock's cheek, before brushing up to tangle in his hair, "that's it." His fingers slipped free to be replaced with something better. 

Blunt and warm, and slick with pre-cum John's cock slowly forced it's way into Sherlock's mouth and down his throat. John knelt over him, his knees pressed into Sherlock's armpits, one of his hands firmly planted on the matress above Sherlock's head. The hand in Sherlock's hair tightened as Sherlock's throat closed around the cock, only to relax again as John pulled back, letting Sherlock suck at the tip and lick his way along the length. 

"God," sighed John, "like that, love. Sherlock, just like that." 

Sherlock barely heard the words, but he understood their meaning, and he swallowed John deep again, his thoat welcoming the fullness of John's cock. The taste was heady, and it had Sherlock's arse rubbing with hard, unrewarding pressure against the sheets, slick and cool, and growing slicker still. He never wanted it to stop, but -- he needed something more. 

John gazed down at Sherlock, trapped beneath him, his mouth stretched about his cock, and panting for him to thrust harder deeper. "So beautiful," he said, tugging on Sherlock's hair. "Just once more, there we go, just once more."

John slowly eased his cock from Sherlock's mouth, pausing long enough for Sherlock to lick at him again, once more, before sliding down Sherlock's body, and pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. 

"Thank you, love," he murmured, patting Sherlock's hair, watching Sherlock's eyes glaze with desire, his breathing ragged and desperate. "I know we're not there yet, but we'll be there soon, just wait. Selfish of me, I know, but I wanted --" he paused, his hand untangling reluctantly from Sherlock's hair to tug the last of his clothes off, "-- I wanted you like that. Marked. Mine. Surrendering. You're bloody beautiful when you take me like that. Mine, just mine."

Sherlock whimpered, his eyes searching out John's, "Now?" he asked. 

John laughed, a huff of pleasure. "Only you," he said, dropping a soft kiss on Sherlock's open mouth, "would be conherent enough to ask that question. To ask any question." He paused to kiss Sherlock, deeper, more demanding, and when he spoke again his tone was indulgent, "Only you."

Sherlock frowned as John pulled away, but his expression transformed to open mouthed desire as John pressed two fingers inside him. His arse was slick and warm, and it clenched about John's fingers, disappointed by their size, and desperate for something more. 

"Now," demanded Sherlock.

John dropped a kiss on his shoulder as his hands pulled, a little roughly for Sherlock to turn to his knees again. "Soon," he promised, and his voice cracked a little as he sat back, watching Sherlock's needy hole clench, empty and desperate. Sherlock pressed his face into his pillow and lifted his arse as high as he could, his cock, still hard and weeping, but forgotten.

Every instinct drove Sherlock to pause in position, to wait for John. Wanting nothing more than to have John inside him, his cock pressing as deeply as it could, his knot stretching him, and his come filling him. The same instinct pressed John forward, his cock aching and his senses filled with Sherlock, and if John was more coherent it was only because biology demanded he be able to see and respond if Sherlock was distressed. 

Sherlock could take and take, and the only thing stopping John from giving him everything - forcing it on him all at once - was the small voice of reason allowed to him by his genetics, letting him focus through the lust and love that clouded his vision. He paused, the tip of his cock at Sherlock's entrance, felt the muscles spasm, and closed his eyes as he tried not to press in too quickly, too roughly. 

Sherlock swallowed loudly, sounds clogging his throat as John's hot, heavy cock eased its way in, filling him. It was thick and heavy and perfect, and Sherlock would have been moaning 'faster', 'harder', 'deeper', but words had escaped him long before. He felt John's girth stretching him, and his length pressing, slowly, deeper and he couldn't restrain the need to press back, to take him in faster, more fully. 

Sherlock rocked backward, wanton and needy, and John moaned as more of his cock was sheathed in tight, warm heat, but --  
"No," growled John, a warning hand decending on the back of Sherlock's neck. It said 'don't move,' and 'you're mine,' and 'we're doing this my way,' and all the other things John was no longer coherent enough to say. 

Sherlock's hands tightened involutarily, grasping at the bed sheets by his head, knuckles whitening as he restrained himself from moving. John's cock was brushing slowly, too slowly, over his prostate, and everything in him was screaming to be taken. But John had told him not to move. He closed his eyes, tight, and did nothing to stop the soft whine of pleasure that was climbing up his throat.

Then John was there, fully seated, his cock pressed as deeply into Sherlock as it could go. Sherlock whimpered and tentatively shifted his hips, feeling John move inside him, igniting every nerve and satisfying some deep, visceral need. 

John, his palm still warm on Sherlock's neck, moved slowly. Shallow thrusts in and out, his cock pulling at Sherlock's entrance, red and stretched. "Mine," he said, fiercely, pressing Sherlock more heavily into the pillow, "mine."

Sherlock struggled to breath, though his mouth wasn't pressed into the pillow and he should be able to draw in air. But it seemed he was only able to press back -- welcoming. 'Yours,' he said with his body, 'yours.' 

John's thrusts grew faster, even as they became shallower. Small shudders in and out. Then, he paused, the base of his cock pressed tight against Sherlock's arse, his breath coming in ragged gulps and his knot tying them together. 

Sherlock cried out, a wordless call of fulfilment and gratification. His hips pressed back, hard against John, and his arse twitched around John's cock, milking him. The pleasure in his cock, growing soft now, with satisfaction, after coating come on the matress beneath him, seemed almost an afterthought. 

John slowly ran his hands across Sherlock's back, slick with sweat, and tugged him gently onto his side. "It'll be a while, love," he murmured, tiredly, when Sherlock blinked at him questioningly. "Best be comfortable."

Sherlock nodded, the haze of desire slowly parting. Content and satiated he curled into John, pressing as close as he could, pulling John's arm a little tighter about his waist.


End file.
